Ashtray Heart
by Yuna Cifer
Summary: Months after the death of Sherlock Holmes, and the pain is still fresh. Nothing is the same, Gregory Lestrade is barely hanging on until his ex-partner Sally Donovan calls with disturbing news about a killer who is recreating all the murders the late Sherlock Holmes solved.
1. The Call

**Welp, it's like midnight here in the states so this is for you guys/gals across the pond. So I wrote this because I was having strong Lestrade feels and decided to write a Lestrade centric fic. And while I wrote this I was basically crying during the first, and last bit, so yeah. This will be a casefic and may feature BAMF!Lestrudel. That's what I call him. hehehehe! **

**Anyways, I clearly don't own this yada yada blah blah, the great lord Godtiss does *bow down bow down* *grovel grovel* **

**I'm so gonna read this in the morning and like WTF -_-**

* * *

Gregory Lestrade lay flat on his back his legs hanging off the edge of the bed. A beer bottle lay on its side, just out of reach. The detective rolled his eyes landing them on the empty bottle just inches out his reach. Greg stretched his fingers a bit. Nope. Too far.

Damn is this what it was like..._losing someone_. He'd lost people before, his wife, kids. But this was different Sher- he was really gone. Not coming back. He'd seen the body himself.

The blood staining the pale white skin, soaking raven black curls.

Greg closed his eyes, squeezing them shut. Trying to stop the images. It didn't work.

_Greg walked into the morgue his legs like lead. He couldn't even remember driving there, just the phone call, the shock and then blank. Now he was here at the morgue to identify no not identify they already knew who it was. How couldn't they Sher...Sherlock was a right._

_The coroner was saying something and then he began pulling open the drawer, and Oh, god he was about to see it, him, Sherlock. God, this wasn't happening. This had to be some colossal mistake and the person he was about to see wasn't going to be Sherlock._

_Greg shut his eyes for a second and then opened them. And there he was. Fuck, God no. He was dead. A familiar voice quipped at the back of Greg's mind, 'obviously'. Greg rolled his eyes, prat wasn't even dead for a whole day yet and he was already in his head._

_Greg looked at Sherlock's face, really looked, and memorized it. The curves dips and edges, where his curls fell against his forehead. The shape of his lips, nose, eyebrows. The entire memory would be a disservice to the consulting detective this would only be a mere shadow of what Sherlock was like._

_He would never see Sherlock's ethereal green eyes again, or see those slender fingers delicately pick up a piece of evidence again, nor would he see his face light up with glee at a crime scene._

_Greg lifted his hand and brushed away a stray curl and imagined Sherlock giving him one of his trademark petulant looks. Something wet rolled down Gregs cheek and suddenly he had to leave. He dropped his hand fisting it at his side and sped out of there as fast as he could._

_Tears rolling down his cheeks unabated. He locked himself in his car in the parking lot, and screamed and shouted abuse until voice was hoarse._

_He wouldn't remember later how long he stayed in that parking lot._

Greg dug his nails into his palms painfully. For one second that was all he focused on, the physical pain. Anything not to think about the emotional pain. If he cried anymore he might just lose his mind.

A buzzing sounded to the left, blindly he reached for the bedside table and grabbed his mobile.

Checking the caller-ID Greg groaned, it was Sally.

Greg contemplated letting it just ring but decided to just get it over with. A ticked Sally was never worth it.

"Greg Lestrade."

"_Yes I know that, I called you. We got a murder_."

"Alright. What do you want me to do about it?" said Lestrade peeved by the statement. His career was already ruined she didn't have to rub it in his face and call him each time there was a murder. Rubbing salt in his wounds.

"_No - not what I meant, sorry. It's weird, I don't know there's something about this one._"

Weird. What was she getting at. Did she want to piss him off. "Sally. Get to the point." said Lestrade and if he sounded ticked off then he was.

"_It's the locations, well. You've seen the papers?_"

"Yeah, so."

"_The murder at Brixton, Lauriston Gardens._"

Alarm bells went off in Gregs head. "What are you getting at?"

_"Then today a city boy shows up dead in his apartment, all the windows and doors were completely locked."_

"Sally, what are you saying?" Greg nearly growls out.

_"I don't know thats why I called, these cases their connected. Obviously. But -"_

"The Banker case was Detective Dimmocks case wasn't it?" asks Greg.

"Yeah but we both know that isn't the connection." says Sally, patronizing.

"I don't know. A coincidence. There were no similarities between the cases." says Greg, hoping trying to find anything that doesn't make what he's thinking true.

_"That's what we told the press."_ Sally's confirmation is all he needs. He's up on his feet and tugging on jeans as he speaks into the phone.

"I'm coming down to the station." Greg breathes into the speaker as he pulls his shirt off and pull on another cleaner one.

_"No you can't."_ Sally says quickly, too quickly.

There's silence over the line as Greg digests the meaning of Sally's words. Sally realizes her mistake and corrects herself. _"It's just, new regulations. No ones aloud to see case files unless they're on the force."_

"Ok, want to get coffee." says Greg, hoping Sally would get it and follow through.

_"Of course, sir. The usual."_ agrees Sally, over the phone Greg can hear a shuffle of papers as he locks his door behind him and heads for the usual cafe.

"You know me." says Greg as he walks outside, immediately sliding a pair of shades over his eyes. He was still slightly hungover.

He hailed a cab and quickly told the cabbie the name of the cafe. Greg leaned back on the leather seat and waited.

* * *

Greg sat in a booth of the little hole in the wall cafe and nursed his triple shot espresso. Greg peered into his black black coffee and took a sip of it. More sugar. He leaned and grabbed six packets of sweet n' low and dumped three and a half of them into his coffee and stirred.

And stirred. He was so busy stirring that he hadn't noticed Sally sitting down.

"I can't believe I'm doing this. I could be fired you know."

Greg looks at Sally and lifts a brow. Sally has the decency to look ashamed.

Sally studies Greg's appearance, it's a bit put-together and haggard and he's sporting more than just a five o' clock shadow.

Sally opens her mouth to say something only to close it again. But then she opens it again, this time to say something.

"What are you doing wearing sunglasses inside?" says Sally, making a vague gesture toward Lestrade's face.

"Had a bad night." grunts out Greg.

Sally either doesn't hear the comment or ignores it. It's all the same to Greg.

Sally opens the case files and pushes them toward Greg as she explains. "The first one is the original case, Jennifer Wilson, right. The second one is the copycat, Jeanine Wilcox. The women are the exact same height, weight, age, race, basically this freak found Jennifer Wilson's carbon copy and killed her and recreated '_The Study in Pink_'. Complete psycho."

The copycat was exactly the same down to the pink clothes and message scratched onto the floor, '_Rache_'.

Sally continued pushing over the next two files. "This ones the same, exact replica. Someones got a twisted pass time."

Greg had never seen the Banker crime scene photos so he picked up the originals, examining those first. The victim, Eddie van Coon lay on the side of the bed his legs falling of the edge. A gun resting limp in one hand a bullet wound in the side of his head. The photos offered different angles of the scene, the rest of the photos showed the rest of the apartment.

Dimmock's report stated that the apparent suicide was disproven by Sherlock Holmes with his deduction of the arrangement of various objects in the apartment, that proved that Van Coon was left handed and could not have shot himself '_as it would have required quite a bit of contortion_'.

Lestrade read the entire file. Sherlock found out the killer was a Black Lotus assassin but in the end Shan had gotten away. Which had probably bothered the detective.

The next file, the copy cat murder, was the same as the first copy cat. The city boy, Edmond Cummings was very similar to Eddie van Coon and if Lestrade looked at the profile the numbers would come close. The scene was set up exactly the same, gun, bullet wound, everything.

Greg blinked his eyes. The two crime scenes couldn't be exactly identical. Some of this information hadn't even been released to the press. You'd have to either be the killer or at the crime scene that night. And since both killers were either dead or in jail. Then...

Greg shut the files and pushed them back to Sally, her expression understanding.

"I see you came to the same conclusion I did." says Sally, leaning back on the the booth.

"The killer he was at the original crime scenes." answers Lestrade, flatly.

"Yes, and who do we know that was at both crime scenes." says Sally, like they both know what's happening.

The words are like a slap to the face. Greg feels like he's drowning and there is_ no one_ to pull him out. Suddenly he's no longer drowning, instead he's boiling, with anger and before he knows it he's yelling in Sally's face.

"What the hell are you suggesting?! Don't you think you've done enough. Don't you dare ask for my help and then insult my friends." Lestrade sighs heavily, clenching his fists. He looks Sally straight in the eyes. She looks startled from his sudden outburst. And Greg can't keep back a vicious, _good she deserves it._

"You haven't gone to John with this have you?" says Greg, steadily.

"I - I was..." Greg interrupts Sally before she finishes.

"Don't. If I hear that you spoke to John, at all. Sally I swear, the rest of you life will be very difficult." Greg threatens, no promises Sally. His voice low and steady.

"Is that a threat _Lestrade_." Sally counters holding her ground, sitting straighter, her face stone.

"No, its a promise." says Greg, before standing up from the booth, striding out of the cafe.

Greg is three blocks away from the cafe and he's still fuming. The fucking nerve of Sally. It all he could do not to punch something or shout abuse until hoarse.

Then without warning raw gut wrenching pain hit him like a million needles. It was old pain but was still as fresh as the day it had happened. Whoever said that the pain got better over time was a fucking liar.

No, it didn't get better, you got used to it.

That empty hole in your chest, that tingle at you back where they used to be, that split second where you go to ask a question and you realize..._they're not there anymore_. Everyday, you discover something new that you will miss.

The foibles and characteristics that are so unique to that person you could never, _never_ find it anywhere else. Even when they're irritating, especially when they're irritating. What you would give for them to irritate you and then to feel that fond exasperation fill you up. Because no matter how much they piss you off, you'll still love them. No matter what.

Greg steadies himself against a wall inside an alley, hands bracing him, holding him up. He hangs his head between his arms, entire body shaking at the sheer effort of trying to hold himself up.

A heavy sigh escapes Greg and he wipes hand down his face, only succeeding in wiping away a bit of the pain.

Greg steps out of the alley tired and aching. Headed back to his flat.

* * *

Greg opened his door the copycat crimes back on his mind as he walked in. He'd been trying to find the flaw in the copycat murders because there had to be a flaw. Something the killer missed forget to do or leave at the scene. Something that would ultimately lead them to him. It was like playing 'spot the difference', except with more blood.

Greg locked his door and tried one more thing. Although his memory wasn't perfect he pictured '_The Study in Pink_' original crime and took the copycat crime and superimposed that one over the original. Hopefully the flaws would show themselves.

Greg was about to drop the keys on the counter, but instead they clattered on the floor.

He found it. Oh. Obvious.

Now he sounded like Sherlock. But surely he would have noticed much earlier.


	2. his ashtray heart

**This chapter is a lot shorter than the last one but I thought this was the best place to stop. For the most part I know where I'm going with this so, yeah. And like wow the Lestrade angst, god I love him but putting him through emotional turmoil is like one of my fav pass times. **

**I got the title of this fic from a song Ashtray Heart by Placebo. Fits so well. **

* * *

Gregory sat down at the small breakfast table and tried to piece together the information. The Study in Pink murder copy was close but the superimposed image he created proved that something wasn't right. The suitcase markings on the back of Jennifer Wilson's leg was missing on Jeanine Wilcox's leg.

Which meant either the killer didn't know about the markings, their information isn't complete, or they had made a mistake. A mistake that could hopefully lead them to the perp.

A cruel reminder surfaces in Lestrade's mind. He was no longer Detective Inspector, this wasn't his case to solve. Yet, here he was solving it.

No, he wasn't DI anymore, this wasn't his problem anymore. The Yard would take care of it.

* * *

The ex-detective sits back down at the breakfast table with a cup of tea. Wrapping his hands around the mug letting it warm his hands, his cold heart. He takes big gulp of the tea, scalding his throat. The feeling is something new and its all he can do.

Abandoning his tea Greg retrieves a white box and sits back down. Greg tips the box sideways and a cigarette slides out. Expertly the ex-detective pulls the cigarette out between thumb and forefinger and place the fag between his lips balancing it carefully.

Greg reaches across the table and grabs a matchbook, he lights one of the little matches and lights the fag between his lips.

And inhales. There is an instant burn down his throat, that travels straight toward his lungs when he pulls the fag out between thumb and forefinger and exhales.

A cloud of milky white smoke escapes between his lips. Curling slowly away from him, disappearing into the light.

He takes another drag, longer this time. And taps out the ashes into his ashtray. Which strangely is shaped like a heart. A 'gift' from his wife. She said if he kept breaking her heart over his job then this was where he could put his. In the ashtray.

The next day she left.

His ashtray heart. Like dumping the remains of his heart into the glass ashtray.

Greg took another drag of the fag and this time the burn went passed his throat and straight to his heart. Greg held the nicotine in for longer than usual letting the buzz go to his head, clear him out, he didn't want to think.

Didn't want to think about the lose, the pain, the loneliness, everything. Didn't want to think about that damn case, and fucking Sally's accusations, and the fact that he actually didn't care whether or not he was DI or not and just wanted to figure out what was going on.

Sherlock never cared, he'd run straight in and figure the whole thing out, despite the rules and the consequences. It was all about the case the puzzle and he'd find the answer, the whole answer no matter what blocked his way.

Sherlock didn't care, so long as he got the answer. Greg stood up putting out the fag in his ashtray. He didn't care as long as he stopped the murders.

Greg stood up pacing back on the case. He already knew the flaw in The Study in Pink copy. So using the same method he superimposed the Banker copy crime over the original, and there it was.

The left handed arrangement of the Eddie van Coon crime was completely inverted in the second. Which once again either meant the killers information isn't complete, or they had made a mistake.

But this definitely eliminated the possibility of the perp having been at the crime scenes. Because with the precision the previous crime scene was replicated, if perp had been at the crime scenes he would definitely not had made such an obvious mistake. So his information must have come second hand.

Which meant there was a second party involved. The perp and his informant.

If there was an informant (the man on the inside) then he could find him and that would bring him to the perp. The inside man was most likely going to be a cop. As much as it pained Greg to admit. Implicating a fellow cop was always nasty business. If the informant was a dirty cop then Greg knew just where to go find the latest information on dirty cops.

* * *

Greg stood at a grubby street corner, dressed in plain jeans and a navy hoodie. In this part of London it was best to look as little like a cop as possible. Even though Greg was no longer a DI his posture and dress sense still screamed Yarder. So with that logic the ex-Yarder doned the clothes he'd usually wear on a stakeout or undercover job.

The ex-DI had made call an hour earlier to one of his contacts - completely separate from any of the NSY contacts, this was his own informant - and arranged a sort exchange. Thats what it would look like at least. His contact - Georgie (he didn't know his last name) - was a drug dealer a small time dealer but a dealer nonetheless, and if Greg knew anything about the criminal classes it was that they would know which cops would be getting them off and which wouldn't.

Greg watched the passerby, so absorbed in their lives completely complacent with their filthy surroundings. It made Greg's stomach churn and hyper aware of the grubby brick wall he was leaning against and the cracked, gum stained sidewalk. It made Greg itch all over and feel dirty, and he cursed Georgie for his lateness, but Greg didn't know what he was expecting.

Finally the small time dealer showed up, just when Greg is about to explode. Georgie leans against the wall next to Greg, sticking his dusty fingers in his hoodie pockets.

"'ows it goin' guv?" says Georgie, studying the ex-DI with bright green eyes with little freckles dotting around his eyes, trailing across his nose, the kids vibrant and curly red hair make him look as white as a ghost.

"Coming along, Georgie. How's your sister?" responds Greg, not wanting to start right away.

"Oh, she's doin' alright, I guess. She's got 'ere self a real nice job now, a waitress." says Georgie, beaming at his big sisters accomplishment.

"That's good to hear. And you?" questions the ex-Yarder, whenever he sees the kid he always tries to ask about him instead of just getting what he wants and leaving without find out how Georgie his getting on.

"Oh real good, sir. Haven't had any trouble, but I can take care of myself guv." Georgies' had life rough but he's still incredibly naive and Greg can't help but think one day that innocence is going to be shattered and theres going to be no one there.

Greg cracks a weary smile and scurfs up the kids hair. "Sure you can, kid."

The kid only swipes his hand away, sending an annoyed look at Greg.

"So what did ya want guv?"

" What do you have on the Yard?" asks Greg seriously his tone of voice steady.

" Can't say much guv. It's been pretty dead, not many new players, ya know." says Georgie slightly disappointed that he couldn't give the detective information.

"You said 'new' players. What can you tell me about them?" questions Greg, really starting to feel like he's investigating, figuring this out.

"Well lemme think. Theres this one DS hot stuff to, shoot up in the ranks right after that fake detective stuff, yeah. So he comes around every now and then, just ya know askin' 'bout the usual stuff an all. But then he gets promoted and then he's real secretive askin' 'bout some irishman or sumthin like that."

As the Georgie talked Greg could feel his heart sinking, this was terrible. How could this happen how had this man gotten into NSY. He had to stop this, quick.

"Who, who is he?!" shouted Greg, grabbing Georgie's shoulders, feeling slightly bad for it.

Georgie's eyes widened, mouth slightly agape but he recovered quickly, blinking a few times and then responding.

"Richard Tyler, DS Richard Tyler."

"Anything else, what else do you know?" said Greg, desperate he had to know everything.

" He - he's always complaining about his DI, Donovan somethin' or other." sputtered out the teen in rush.

Greg's heart stopped. Greg shut his eyes and then look the teen straight in the eyes.

"Sally, was Sally her first name?" Greg held his breath preparing himself.

"Yeah, yeah I think so, why what is it guv?" asked the teen utterly confused.

Greg almost didn't hear the kids question his mind was racing so fast. He had to tell Donovan. He had to stop DS Richard Tyler from killing more people.

In a rush Greg pulled out several notes from his pocket all he had on him and shoved it into Georgie's hands and ran out of there. He ran all the way to his flat, he needed to get something first.


	3. The Visitor

**Oh gosh, sorry this took so long. School started and I kinda completely forgot about it. It was practically finished by then, so yeah. **

**I hope this update makes you happy. Badass Lestrade next chappie guys. **

**Disclaimer: I clearly do not own BBC Sherlock, cuz if I did then well I would be a fifty-something year old Scottish man. **

* * *

DI Sally Donovan strode briskly through the Homicide Investigation Unit of NSY, weaving past desks and chairs in the bullpen, quickly coming up to her office door. Sally sat rigidly at the desk and then, sagged.

Being DI was not what she had suspected. There was a difference between just being DI and being DI and having respect. It was hard to get her colleagues to see past who she was when she was DS. The lack of acceptance and second guessing. Like they didn't trust in her ability to keep them safe and lead them in the right direction. She wasn't all sure it was the change in authority either, it was almost as if her colleagues were blaming her for something.

She had no idea why though. She was the one to notice Holmes for who he was. She had stopped a criminal. So what were they blaming her for? The sacking of Lestrade? That was hardly her fault. It wasn't her fault that Lestrade decided to listen to a lunatic.

Sally sighed heavily, she truly believed what she had done then, those few months ago was the the right thing. She could feel a headache coming on and she rubbed her temples, squeezing her eyes shut. That felt better, maybe she was getting a migraine. That would be awful.

Just as Sally was considering on taking an ibuprofen the office door swung open. DS Tyler had just showed up. Sally shot up pretending like she hadn't been nursing a headache.

"Donovan, I think we need to question all of the possible suspects." said DS Tyler smoothly sitting down across from Sally.

Tyler's mild brown eyes assessed Sally and her discomfort didn't slip past him. His figure spoke of someone who worked out, with wide shoulders and strong leg muscles. His hair was styled in a buzz cut, shaved close to his skin. DS Tyler had handsome features that Sally often found herself admiring, although his beauty seemed to have sort of feral quality to it.

"I'm sorry, what?" questioned Sally.

"The copycat case, we should question all suspects." responded the DS.

"John Watson isn't a suspect." said Sally seriously, she had made this clear earlier when the DS had insisted on interrogating the good doctor.

"What makes you think I was talking about Watson?" said DS Tyler making himself comfortable before crossing one leg over the other.

"Because you've been on about him since we've started this case." answered Donovan her patience really starting to wear thin with the DS. Ever since the start of the case Tyler had been asking about Doctor Watson.

"It's police procedure to question all possible suspects. No matter their previous engagements with the Met or its employees.' The DS responded sensibly, his hands folded in his lap looking Donovan steadily in the eye.

"We just shouldn't bother Doctor Watson with this."

"Well, I'm sure the good Doctor would like to know who is re-enacting these murders don't you think. Besides once we get this over with the better, Watson will be cleared of all suspicion and he can go on as normal, right." The DS finished spreading his hands as if for emphasis.

Sally sighed, looking down at the shiny surface of the desk. "Alright, then." Then she began to get her coat, it would best if one familiar face were there despite the rocky relationship behind it.

"Oh, no. I'll go I can take care of it. Take a load of Sally, I can take care of Watson."

Sally thought about for a second and nodded her acquiescence. She did have an awful headache. She put her coat back, and sat back down.

DS Tyler grinned - his features taking on that odd feral quality that always seemed to put Sally off -and he spun around and left. He really was handsome but something about him was off. Sally just couldn't put her finger on it.

Feeling her headache coming back full force Sally opened a drawer and fished out bottle of ibuprofen and took two.

* * *

"Oh dear, John theres someone here to see you." Mrs. Hudson's voice floated from down the stairs. "Says he's from the Met. Oh, dear."

John blinked and blinked again. He'd lost track of time, again. Well, not lost, just let it get away from him.

Without a reason to get out, move. John couldn't be bothered to keep track of the hours, minutes, seconds, any of it. All of it seeming so tedious when there was no longer anyone filling those hours, occupying the space beside him, grabbing his hand tugging him along on some ridiculous adrenaline fueled chase across the city.

Everything that he had tried so hard to keep up with eating, sleeping, communicating with other people. All of it he can no longer do, there is no reason to. Not without him. Not without Sherlock.

The creaky step on the stairs screeches and John gets up joints and back popping along as he stands to greet the man at the door.

'Doctor Watson sorry to bother you. I'm Detective Sergeant Richard Tyler I just have a few questions, if you don't mind...' DS Tyler says standing in the doorway, John a few feet from the detective standing in the middle of the flat.

'Of course detective, would you like a cuppa.' asks John, glancing momentarily at the detective before disappearing into the kitchen.

'No, no thank you.'

John continues anyway and starts heating up the water in the kettle. John appears back in the front room and gestures to the chair, John sits down opposite in the black leather chair.

'Doctor Watson, I've come to question you about the murders of Jeanine Wilcox and Edmond Cummings,' stated the Detective Sergeant.

John pressed his lips together simultaneously picking at a piece of thread coming unraveling from the old leather chair. He didn't trust the Yard much anymore since - he just didn't have much faith in them anymore.

He knew which murders the detective was talking about of course. The copycat murders...the ones Sherlock had solved. John may be not be running across London solving crimes anymore but he was still keeping up. Something that became more and more difficult as time passed.

'Is this an interrogation?' asked John bluntly, gazing at the detective, challenging him.

DS Tyler smiled amiably, "Not at all, Doctor."

"Then what are you here for, if not to question me?"

"Just keeping all lines of inquiry open."

"So this is an investigation." says John his expression hardening and posture straightening.

"Not exactly, call it a personal inquiry if you will," replies DS Tyler.

"So you're interviewing me now." John says the words coming out a bit harsher than he meant.

"Not exactly -"

A high keening sound rips through the air and and the DS doesn't get to finish the sentence. John waves his hand telling DS Tyler to wait a second while he shuts the kettle off.

DS Tyler continues talking as John works in the kitchen, which is now bare. "Not exactly, Doctor Watson, I - I was how do I say this, I was worried about you." the DS gets up from his seat and heads to the kitchen. "I feared that you would be disturbed by the case and I wanted to make sure you ok."

John starts pouring the tea into cups so he doesn't hear DS Tyler's footsteps suddenly become heavy and speed up. By the time John notices it's too late and something is striking his skull painfully and blackness is clouding his vision before he can react and he is gone.


	4. burn

**Finally finished, well writing. This is technically the last chapter, but I wrote an epilogue. I had to write a happy ending, well as happy as it gets for me. **

**I changed my writing style which I hope is smoother than before. I'll probably go back and edit the earlier chapters, improve those and all.**

**chapter title comes from the song Burn by The Tiny**

**Disclaimer: I do not own blah, blah, Moffat blah, Gatiss blah, blah, blah, blah all involved parties blah, blah, blah, blah, BBC blah, blah, blah, blah. **

* * *

Lestrade tucks his gun in his waistband at the small of his back, and pulled out his mobile, hitting speed-dial number three.

The ex-detective raced out of the small flat, and down the sidewalk ignoring the curses and shouts thrown at him as he pushed through the congested sidewalk.

There was a click on the line and the small knot of apprehension that had been silently forming loosened, but only fractionally as Greg heard Sally's voice on the line.

_"Hello Greg –"_

"Donovan there isn't time where are you?" Greg cut off, voice straining as he ran.

_"What?" _

"Where are you?" Muscles burning, taking a breath, each one burning as it passes his dry throat. Concentrate, In out in out, one two three.

_"At the office, what's wrong Greg? What's happened?" _Even though he can't see her he can hear he concern in her voice.

"Nothing, not yet, where's your DS?" It was blunt and was going to put Sally on the defensive but there was no time to beat around the bush.

_"DS Tyler, why? What's going on?" _

"It doesn't matter. Where _is_ he Donovan?" Lestrade's voice was even and commanding, this was the voice of Detective Inspector Lestrade.

_"I – I, he left to ask Doctor Watson some questions about the case?"_

"Shit."

_"What?" _a pause_ "Sir." _

"It's him dammit, that sonuvabitch." The detective stops running and quickly waves down a cab.

_"Sir, what are you talking about?" _

"The murders, it's him dammit. DS Tyler it's fucking him, and Johns' in danger. "

_"DS Tyler – " _

"I don't care what you think of him Sally, it's him."

_"Alright, I believe you." _

Lestrade's breath hitches in his throat. Sally was putting her faith in him, following him. She was waiting for him to give out the orders, tell her what to do. Sally hadn't had faith in him when they lost Sherlock so perhaps this was Sally redeeming herself, putting herself on the line, all of herself, sacrificing her career just for his hunch, and save the life of an innocent man.

"Bring your best men Detective Inspector and don't forget your sidearm."

****  
Lestrade twists the ancient doorknob of 221 b Baker Street, inching the heavy wooden entrance of 221 b open, he only opens it wide enough to slip past. His shoulder bumps the edge of door and a long sorrowful creak emanates from the old door. Stiffening Greg points his up the stairs waiting waiting, he waits for as long as it takes and then he lowers the gun, but only fractionally.

Lestrade takes the stairs cautiously, heel toe, heel toe. He goes up slightly crouched gun held in front of him.

Gripping the doorknob curling his fingers around it, gun held up ready to aim. Adrenaline pulses hot in his veins and he pushes the open. Swinging the gun out, immediately the barrel of another, foreign gun is aimed between his eyes.

DS Tyler scowls at him, his mouth set into a feral grin-grimace.

Lestrade keeps his gaze steady never looking away, gun held steady. Out of the corner of his eye he can see a figure slumped in a chair, quickly he darts his eyes to the side for a better look. Though before he can DS Tyler is swinging a large meaty fist and Lestrade barely has a second to dodge the swing.

A hiss escapes his lips as the ex-detectives ankle twists and he falls to one knee. Lestrade grips his weapon tighter knuckles turning white along with his vision as electric jolts shoot up from his injured ankle toward his thigh.

Lestrade tries to steady himself as he hears heavy footsteps approaching. He has to move otherwise Tyler was going to kill him and John. Gritting his teeth Lestrade prepares to stand. Not fast enough. Pain erupts in his shoulder as he is yanked upwards and roughly slammed against a wall. Head smacking against the wall a sickening crack sounds from the impact, lights dancing in the ex-detectives vision, his grip on his gun loosening,

The ex-detective hisses in a breath, panting slightly. He had to stall, just until Donovan arrived.

"Why – why are you doing this?" breathed out Lestrade, looking into the grizzled face of DS Tyler.

"Why? Why not?" said Tyler tone dripping with disbelief and loathing. "You don't get it do you. I have to do this. Make you _see_."

It didn't make sense. Was the DS being forced to murder people? No, he wanted him to see something, something that Lestrade didn't know. Something that was important enough to the DS that he would commit murder for it. But what did it have to do with John? What was the connection?

Words drifted into the ex-detective mind. _You see but you do not observe. _

"Make me see what? What don't I get?" asked Lestrade, his pulse racing with the effort to keep himself calm.

There was a short silence which soon Lestrade found his eyes drifting toward the slumped figure, which he quickly deduced was John. The slow rise and fall of the Doctor's chest loosens the knot of apprehension once more.

A small snort cuts the silence and Lestrade's attention snaps back to DS Tyler. "Detective, I believe you already know," a knowing smile curls at the edges of Tyler's lips.

Lestrade brows furrow, what knowledge does the DS think he has?

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"A hint then, the murders they both have a common link, detective."

The DS paused as if prompting the ex-detective to ask what the 'common link' was.

"What is it then?" bit out Lestrade, not wanting to play games anymore. If Tyler wanted to tell his secrets then he should just come out and say it.

"There sponsors."

"Sponsors?" responded Lestrade he hadn't needed prompting for that one.

"Precisely, well more like sponsor, you see there is only one man who can orchestrate the machinations of the underworld. Do you know who that is detective?"

Lestrade's stomach dropped it couldn't be – but, James Moriarty was dead. This couldn't be one of his orchestrations.

Lestrade breathed out the name Moriarty, the name falling from his lips, as if it had to be expelled as soon as possible.

"Exactly and soon the world will know James Moriarty is real." Tyler's voice rang with triumph and satisfaction, premature satisfaction, at least premature if Lestrade can just twist his arm right…and.

Lestrade swings the butt of the gun at DS Tyler's temple sending him stumbling backwards, clutching the side of his face.

Fists curled and snarling Tyler hurtles after the ex-detective. Lestrade aims his gun on the man and shoots, but doesn't pull the trigger. He can see the body bleeding on the floor. Yet the familiar strain from the few muscles it takes to pull the trigger is missing. He can't feel the grit of powder burn rubbing uncomfortably between his fingers.

He can feel a voice pushing through the haze, adrenaline high coming down.

"Lestrade, Greg are you okay?"

"Fine, I'm fine," slurs Greg, blinking rapidly clearing the fog away. "Check on John, I'm fine."

A hand clasps his shoulder warmly for a moment then disappears.

Slowly the fog lifts and Lestrade can make out a team of beat officers checking the perimeter; making sure all is clear. The body of DS Tyler is still lying prone where he fell, obviously. He wasn't going to hop up and dash away.

There's a lot of chatter all of the beat officers are gossiping and faintly Lestrade can hear Sally talking to John, basically briefing him on the case, more or less. New rules, regulations, limitations a leash, chain. Gotta keep them in line.

Lestrade decides to make a quick exit to avoid having to make a statement.

* * *

In his flat Greg doesn't bother lighting a cigarette nor does he pour any whiskey. He just sits feeling for the first time in months like a brick has been lifted from his chest, breathing easier.

He holds on to the feeling the lightness in his chest, tickling his insides with the last vestiges of adrenaline. And it's all he can do until the bricks start stacking back up; encasing his hot wetly beating heart. The trapped heat of his heart bouncing against the rising heat of the walls, igniting a fire so hot it bursts into flames. Leaving nothing left but ashes.


	5. Epilogue

**FINISHED! finally this will be my fist completed fanfic. I'm so happy, not as many reviews as I would have hoped but oh well.**

**I might write another Lestrade fic, I have quite a few ideas. I just need to decide on one. **

* * *

It's almost a week by the time John has the time to thank Lestrade for what he did, practically saving his life. He can't even think of a proper thank you as he's heading down the stairs. He's halfway down, mind completely focused on how he will thank the ex-detective when he collides with a…person, a woman.

John's brown eyes meet honest blue ones and he doesn't know how he knows their honest, he just does. And he's decided this is the most beautiful women he has ever met.

"Sorry about that," a hesitant pause, "John Watson, right?" the women's lips quirk and then she suddenly jumps exclaiming as he swoops down to pick something up. Soft blonde hair frames her face as she does so.

Mesmerized John almost forgets his manners as he watches, but he quickly helps her pick up several books, pens, and a plate of cookies.

With all of her dislocated object back in hand the women smiles slightly, John can only stare. Suddenly she chuckles, John blinks confused. "You haven't answered my question yet?"

"Your question – oh right, yeah I'm John Watson." This was strange for him someone already knowing his name. "But how –"

She smiles again, amused. He decides he likes that smile. "Oh, Ms. Hudson told me."

"Mrs. Hudson?" John says, tilting his head to the side.

"Uh, yeah," she answers a bit mockingly, as if the reason her talking to Ms. Hudson should be obvious.

"Uh, no," answers John, going a bit on the defensive.

The women's eyes widen in understanding, pink lips parting in an 'o' shape.

"Oh, I see. You've been busy with the Yard oh, and I guess Ms. Hudson didn't want to bother you. Oh well, what's done is done." Shrugging her shoulders the women adjusts her items and holds out a hand.

"I've just moved in flat 221 c. Nice to meet you John Watson."

John takes the offered hand, shaking it; he's not all that surprised to find it is warm and soft.

"Nice to meet you uh…"

"Mary Morstan," the women – Mary says smiling brightly, her ocean blue eyes filling John up with an unnamable feeling.

"Hey could you take these off me." Mary says, shifting to the side so John can pick the plate of cookies off the top of the pile of items. "Thanks."

"Ummm, you're welcome." John responds eloquently.

"Don't be there yours."

"Mine?" says John lifting a brow.

"Yeah housewarming gift or whatever," Mary waves a hand vaguely, almost unsettling her whole pile of objects.

"Housewarming gift," he chuckles lightly. "I think you got it backwards."

"Oh, is that so and where is that written down." Mary says, lifting a brow and then smiling softly. "Well I believe a small housewarming gift once in while makes a place feel like new, like a fresh start, right?"

John had never heard of that before but he didn't think he would have heard it from anybody else.

* * *

"What's this?" he knew exactly what it was, he just couldn't believe it.

"You know what it is Lestrade," intoned Donovan from across the booth, her slender fingers wrapped around a warm mug of coffee.

"But I - ," the words caught in his throat, he could hardly comprehend this – this_ opportunity_.

"Take it Lestrade, it's a second chance. The Chief wants you back despite previous misunderstandings and interferences."

"Why?" it was the only thing he wanted to know, was this a tactical move for the Chief bringing him back.

"Were short a DS officer and the Chief wanted someone on the force who could be trusted. Not to mention you were able to solve a case you barely had access to, well according to the report." Sally smirked faintly, she hadn't mentioned going to him for help.

"Detective Sergeant?" said Lestrade, fingering the golden badge running the pads of his fingers over the numbers and the insignia of the police force.

"For as long as the Chief deems necessary then you back to Detective Inspector, and to be honest I hope it's sooner rather than later." The words are a surprise and Lestrade snaps his gaze to Sally, his face blank.

"What? I – I just meant, well your jobs a lot harder than it looks so I'd appreciate it if you hurried it up and got yourself promoted," huffed Sally, her eyes widening slightly seeing at something over Lestrade shoulder.

"What?" said Lestrade, twisting around to see what it was, a smirk raised the corner of his lips.

"Hey John, over here," shouted Lestrade, waving beckoning hand.

John changed direction walking stiffly toward them, a beautiful woman following behind.

"Donovan, Lestrade. How're you?" asked John nodding his head at either of the detectives.

"Hi John, I'm fine. Actually I was just on my way out." Sally said, sliding out of the booth hastily. "Here you can take my seat." And before John could respond Donovan was already halfway out of the café, her back disappearing stiffly through the doors.

There was still some bad blood between Donovan and John, well at least for Donovan. John wouldn't hold that over Donovan thinking that it couldn't be her fault. This wasn't new to them every time Donovan saw or even glimpsed him Donovan was out of the room like a bullet. Lestrade wasn't sure if it was guilt or that she thought John hated her.

"So," drawled John, as he sat down the women beside him. "I, uh – just…"

"No need John. You don't have to."

John's mouth strayed open looking for his next words, they never came, no longer allowed to thank the silver haired detective.

"You can close your mouth now," smiled the women reaching out a finger pushing John's hanging jaw closed.

John blushed lightly embarrassed at gaping and Mary's show of affection in front of Lestrade. Then eyes widened, spotting the badge on the table.

"Lestrade is that- ?" John's voice rings with congratulations and happiness for the re-instated detective.

"Yes. But what I would like to know is who this lovely lady?" says Lestrade only lightly teasing the Doctor.

"This is -,"

"Mary Morstan." Mary interrupts reaching a soft hand out. Lestrade takes the offered hand shaking it.

"DS Greg Lestrade."

Lestrade lifts a brow at John communicating in some universal man language that all men know by instinct at some age.

'_She's a pistol'. _

They soon fall into easy conversation talking about nothing, idle chatter and t.v. gossip. Conversation meant just to get them through the day and into the next.


End file.
